


Yurichka and The Snow Prince

by kakakacuhaku (psycheros)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Family Feels, M/M, Off-screen mPreg, Parents!Victuuri, Son!Yurio, Surrealism, Terminal Illnesses, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8737942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psycheros/pseuds/kakakacuhaku
Summary: Yurichka's Papa is a Snow Prince.
available translationsYurichka and the Snow Prince (Tiếng Việt) by Fab_Mess_2108 and EriGure





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a translation of my Indonesian fic, "Yurichka dan Pangeran Salju". This is not a direct translation, meaning there're phrases and words I changed to get as close to the "feel" of the Indonesian version as possible. Constructive criticism are welcomed, and most of all I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I enjoy writing it <3
> 
> **edited 9/12/2016 for technical errors and slight plotholes**
> 
> a translation in Tiếng Việt is now available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10020083)! Thank you [Fab_Mess_2108](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fab_Mess_2108/pseuds/Fab_Mess_2108) and [EriGure](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EriGure/pseuds/EriGure) for the awesome work!

_Daddy, why don’t Yuri have a Papa?_

_Hm? Who said that, sweetheart? Of course Yurichka has a Papa!_

_Really? Then where is he?_

_He’s outside, my dear. There, go open the door!_

_Daaaddeee! There’s no one here, it’s just snow!_

_That’s right, dear. That’s your Papa!_

_Huh?_

_Yurichka’s Papa is a Snow Prince. In winter like this, Papa visits us in flakes of snow. Ah, did you feel the wind just then, Yurichka?_

_Un. What of it?_

_There, did you see that? When the wind blows the snowflakes turn and spin like a dancer. That’s Papa. Papa is dancing for you, Yurichka. With each stroke of a gentle breeze, he caresses you._

_Does Papa love Yuri?_

_Of course! Papa loves Yurichka very, very much. Daddy loves Yurichka very, very much too. Yurichka is our most precious treasure._

_Yuri loves Daddy and Papa very, very much too!_

_Really?_

_Un!_

_Then come, dear, hug Daddy!_

_._

_._

_._

Yuri Nikiforov was fifteen and he wished his Dad would stop telling him bullshit.

What do you mean bullshit? Come here!

Aaagh! Let me go!

The guests at the Yuutopia  _onsen_  smiled awkwardly as they watched the usual family drama unfolded before them. Yuuri-kun, a pleasant-faced plump man in his late thirties with  _hanten_  and wooden  _geta_ , dragged his rebellious cat punk of a teenage son, Yuri, or Yurio as they liked to call him.

The front door slid open with a loud squeak. The quarrelling pair stepped outside to the thick January snow, glinting like salt crystals.

Apologize to Papa, Yuri!

The teen kicked the pile of snow for emphasis. Like hell I will!

_Yuri!_

I won’t fall for that kind of crap, Dad! Just tell me the truth— _he_ left you after he found out you were having me, right? Don’t tell me he’s a goddamned magical Snow Prince—I’m not that stupid anymore!

Yuuri-kun folded his arms in front of his chest, his pleasant face folded in a rare scowl. There’s so much you have yet to understand, Yurichka.

Exactly! I don’t understand why you insist on telling me the damn lie. Just spill it out, Dad. You were taken advantage by a manipulative, irresponsible dickhead, right? I’m fifteen, I can take the fact that I am a bastard chi—

_Yuri Nikiforov! Watch your mouth!_

Their cheeks flushed red, puffs of breaths hung in front of their faces. Yuri gritted his teeth, stuffed his hands into his jacket’s pockets, and turned toward the  _onsen_ ’s gate in long strides. Not paying any heed to his father’s calls, he strode through the heavily falling snow. All those arguments made his heart boiled, he needed a time out to cool it down.

Yuuri-kun watched his son’s back vanishing in the distance. A cold wind blew, ruffling his whitening hair as if an invisible hand was patting his head to comfort him.

Your son’s growing up, Yuuri-kun looked up toward the waving bare branches, he’s a good kid and I’m very happy. But sometimes his stubbornness makes my head hurts.

The branches rubbed against each other, creaking, whispering, a slow breeze sneaked between the cracks of the roof tiles, making noise like a soft, laughing sound.

.

.

.

Yuri hated his reflection.

That blond hair was not Dad’s. Those green eyes were not Dad’s. Skin white as a porcelain, nose strangely long and thin, lips an unfamiliar rosy red. The only thing proved him to be Dad’s flesh and blood was his small frame. They didn’t even share the same surname.

Nikiforov, Yuri sneered the name viciously as he glared at his reflection in the frozen pond. What a great name for a Snow Prince, huh? Who the hell named you—Rasputin?

A gust of wind hit him hard, cold creeped under his jacket making him shiver. Bastard! He yelled at no one in particular, balling his fist to the air like he was threatening someone. His voice echoed in the empty park. Nobody took a happy walk in the park in a weather like this. The snow was getting thicker and as was the fog. Maybe they were going to have a blizzard tonight.

Scowling, Yuri turned his attention back to the pond. The oval fifty-meters standing water looked like a giant mirror. In spring its smooth surface would be covered in water lilies, storks and gooses teared upon it like butter on a heating pan. In winter, however, the pond was vacant of life, only translucent ice and snowflakes and—

What the—

A figure who was skating on the ice.

Yuri’s mouth gaped. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing a mere illusion. The figure who hadn’t been there a second ago glided gracefully—spinning, twisting, jumping; in and out of the thick curtain of fog. Their red coat a contrast to the grey surrounding, flaming like an ice-melting torch.

The frozen surface of the pond was too thin for a safe skating, but the figure danced as if there was no place more perfect in the world. Yuri was stunned. It felt like watching the Swan Lake ballet show: each movement immaculate, light as a floating feather. Graceful, calm, effortless ….

Who the hell is this crazy bastard? Yuri squinted his eyes. The skating blades sliced through the ice like a craftsman’s knives, the swishes and swashes the only sounds in the otherwise silent realm. Long arms, long legs, lissome frame … the mysterious skater was a man. His hair, soft and golden like tresses made of sunlight, flowed like the flowers of  _susuki_  grass.

Spinning, twisting, jumping; arms spread wide as an angel’s wings. There was no music but Yuri could hear the melody in each fraction of the movements, as though notes were leaking from his pores. The skater sped up his steps, one foot lifted, wings spread, ready to soar—

And then, all of sudden, he slipped and fell face first on the ice.

The spell broke. Yuri blinked, surprised, his heart hammering in his throat. The mysterious skater was crumpled at the center of the pond, trembling in pain, looking like he had a hard time to pick himself up. A swan, wounded by a hunter’s bullet. The sight was so heart wrenching it froze Yuri on the spot, wanting to aid but afraid it would make things worse.

Victor!

Yuri turned his head. Another figure appeared from the thick rolling fog, their steps echoed like a basketball. A young man in a blue puffer jacket, his kind face stricken with worry. Yuri’s eyes widened.

Dad?!

Victor!

The man hurried past him as if he wasn’t there.

Yuri felt lightheaded. Dizzy. What the hell is happening? He watched bewildered as the young man, his  _Dad_ , kneeled next to the injured skater. It was true that the blue-puffer-jacket man was lithe, well-built; his jawline wasn’t obscured in the chubbiness of cheeks and his hair a jet black with no single white strand, but it was Dad. Dad of the photo album version, Dad in his early twenties. They had the same warm eyes.

_What the motherfucking hell is happening?!_

Dad and the skater were talking (—Victor? Isn’t that the name of—). Yuri couldn’t catch the words, only the tones: high-pitched with near-hysteric worry and a low, calming response; both carried in the frozen air like echoes from the mountains. Dad helped Victor to sit up then put one arm under Victor’s legs, another behind his back. With a surprising ease, the smaller man picked him up in his arms.

Dad walked back to the edge of the pond, again not acknowledging Yuri who stood slack jawed like a dead fish. At last he got a glimpse of Victor’s face, a handsome young man with a heart-warming smile. It was the man who always appeared next to his father in the photographs but never in the real world. He put his head on Dad’s chest, a horrible-looking bruise was starting to appear on the left side of his face. Fresh blood trickled down his nose, he dabbed it with a checkered handkerchief.

Don’t  _ever_ go on your way like that again, Dad reprimanded him. Victor chuckled.

Aye aye, Captain.

They were vanishing behind the fog. Yuri glanced around, an instant fear and confusion gripped him as he realized he was no longer in the town’s local park. The pond where Victor danced wasn’t the fifty-meters oval pond he knew. Behind the low hanging fog were shadows of jagged pine trees, the red tiled path under his feet morphed into a blackish narrow footpath.

Wait for me!

Dad and Victor didn’t respond. Yuri chased after them, his pounding steps echoed like a basketball.

.

.

.

Forty degrees Celsius. This is what happens when you go out in weather like this, Victor.

Yuuriii, I was bored! It’s boring to stay in bed all day long!

Doesn’t excuse you from pulling a stunt like that! Sneaking off while I was napping … you almost gave me a heart attack!

If I asked nicely you would’ve refused, the man who was lying in bed pouted like a child. Besides, I was only planning to go for a short while. Just a few rounds then I’d head back.

But you hit the ice face-first before finishing those “few rounds”.

Haha, true that! This old body of mine is getting stiff. Guess it’s what happens when you stop practicing, eh, Yuuri?

His companion didn’t find it funny. Instead he stroked the giant black bruise on Victor’s face with the back of his fingers, his brown eyes dimmed and sad.

You need to be more careful, Victor. What if—

Victor closed his hand on Yuuri’s, smiling fondly. His cheeks flushed, his eyes glistened with fever; his rosy ripening lips kissed each of Yuuri’s fingers as if wanting to bring into them life.

Sush, don’t think about such ill what ifs. I’m alright, see? It’s just a small bruise, I’ve had worse. He jerked his head to the side as if he could get rid of the offending blemish that way.

I’m fine. But I promise I wouldn’t do that again.

Yuuri put his forehead on Victor’s until their noses touched, their eyes almost crossed staring into each other in such proximity.

That’s right. You’re not allowed to make me scared like that again.

I promise. I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry, Yuuriko,  _sakharok_ , my love, my happiness.

How could I get angry if you call me like that?

They both chuckled. Yuuri placed a chaste kiss on Victor’s forehead, Victor put his arm around Yuuri’s waist. They moved in harmony, as though they were one soul who just happened to have two bodies.

Yuri stood at the corner of the room, rolling his eyes and making a face like he wanted to barf.

.

.

.

It was a small cottage in the woods.

The design was neat, simple: a living room, a kitchen, high ceiling. A huge bed filled the majority of the space, along with a kotatsu and a fireplace. The fragrance of burning wood mixed with the sharp sterile smell, bottles of pills stood neatly in a row in the cupboard along with packs of ampules and syringes. Once every six hours Yuuri rolled Victor’s shirt up and injected a dose into Victor’s stomach. Five times a day Victor gulped down his pills, falling asleep soon afterwards. Between those times the two of them spoiled each other rotten.

Yuuri, nestled himself on Victor’s side with his head tucked under his lover’s chin. Victor, sound asleep hugging him with breaths as soft as silk threads.

Yuuri, sitting with his back on the headboard, reading out loud Anna Karenina. Victor, sitting on his lap, wrapped in a blanket, listening to him. They kissed like they licked the spoon clean, hugged like the city was crumbling behind their back and it was the last time they saw the color of each other’s eyes.

I love you, Yuuri whispered over and over again, like he wanted to stretch the remaining time with the passionate heat in his words.

I love you, Victor whispered over and over again, like he wanted to tie up the time that was slipping out of his fingers with his threads of words.

Yuri stayed silent, an unseen spectator, witnessing how two people could fill each other so perfectly. Like a pair of clamped seashells. Like water and holes on the bottom of the riverbed.

When Victor started to get drowsy from the chemicals in his drugs, Yuuri would kiss his forehead fondly. Like a prayer and a goodbye, only to greet him with more love and devotion as those pair of blue opened to grace another day.

Good morning/afternoon/evening, love. How was your sleep?

I dreamed of you, Yuuriko. I wasn’t lonely.

Yuri thought: how poignant it is, the art of letting go.

.

.

.

Time flowed in a strange way here—in a cottage in the woods with piles of snow and a pair of doe-eyed lovers. Soon one of them would die, but either of them no longer care.

This was how Yuri, the unseen spectator, marked the passing of time:

When the sky outside stopped being dark, Yuuri pulled out from his sleep and woke Victor up with a kiss. Victor woke up like a blossoming rosebud, graceful and without rush, uncovering his beauty one petal after another. Good morning,  _sakharok_ , he greeted, and Yuri knew behind the thick fog the sun had risen.

When the thick fog lifted from the ground, hanging at the tips of the trees, Yuuri and Victor made everything in their minds came true. Sometimes Yuuri helped Victor into his coat and boots and they ventured out into the woods, Yuuri’s arm coiled around Victor’s waist and Victor’s arm draped around his shoulders, walking in sync like they were playing a two-men-three-foot game. The bright white of the snow covered everything, Yuuri and Victor’s footprints made shallow eye-like holes. The two of them teased at each other, laughed, and whispered unimportant secrets; Yuri trailed along silently behind them. There were only the three of them in this universe.

Sometimes Victor was too frail to meet the snow, his hands too cold and his skin too bruised. Yuuri rolled him in a blanket, leaned him on his chest and read him books. About Nobokov, whose love could have filled ten centuries of fire, songs, and valor—ten whole centuries, enormous and winged—full of knights riding up blazing hills, and legends about giants, and fierce Troys, and orange sails, and pirates, and poets. About the brave knight Ruslan and Ludmilla the beautiful. About family and kinship, tears of joy and laughter in the loss, a long way home; about Russia and her candy-like onion domes. Yuri sat at the corner of the bed, listening also, eyes drooped sleepily. He fell asleep on Victor’s feet.

When the sky outside went back to being dark, Yuri sat himself in the comforting warmth of the closet. On the bed he heard Yuuri and Victor and the shift of garments, long sighs and low whispers. They yelped, frisked, kissed. The air felt hot and humid and sweet.

Yuri’s cheeks blushed, realizing how it was through a night like this he was first created in the world.

.

.

.

There were many stories in Yuuri’s books.

Some were heartwarming, others isolating. Yuuri narrated them with the passion of Scheherazade from the story of One Thousand and One Nights, a clever daughter of a vizier who told one thousand and one tales so that her husband the Syahrar didn’t behead her the next morning. Victor and Yuri listened to him with the eagerness of the Syahrar himself, tasting each word in their ears and giddily waiting for the next one.

With the promise of a new story, Victor continued to life.    

One story captivated Yuri fiercer than the others. It was of one Billy Pilgrim, a fictional character created by Kurt Vonnegut, who could time-travel beyond his control. For him time wasn’t a monorail with only one destination—forward; but an integrated part which happened always at the same time, like a cuboid with its six faces. Only your point of view made the cuboid looked different—from the front it looked like a rectangle, from above a square, but it was actually a three-dimensional figure.

For Billy Pilgrim, Victor would have been dying, born, and dead at the same time. There was no “then” and “later”, only “now”. There was no use in mourning death because he could switch his point of view to find the baby Victor in his crib.

Billy Pilgrim could also watch things backwards. The American bomber planes flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck bullets from the crewmen and planes, making them all as good as new.

The steel cylinders were then shipped back to the United States of America, where factories operating night and day, dismantling cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mostly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas, where it was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.

Yuri thought about this story long after Yuuri and Victor went to sleep, like a cow that ate its food once and then regurgitated it to chew and digest it again. He imagined his family as Billy Pilgrim, seeing Victor’s malignant cells disintegrated themselves, the bruises on his spine shrunk and disappeared, leaving smooth healthy skin on its wake. They could choose to see only the happy moments, forgetting the painful ones.

Later in the future, Victor would have been dead before Yuri was born. But they could dismiss that event and enjoyed the other times, where Victor was full of life and breathing and running; tied up his skating shoes and glided upon butter-soft ice, arms wide feet lifted, dancing in eternity.

.

.

.

Yuuri, have you ever heard about the snow fairy?

Victor’s eyes were locked on Yuri. A pair of deep blue like pebbles extracted from the lake water, not inherited by Yuri whose green eyes were of unknown origin. The stare was so direct, intense, it made Yuri who was getting used to his invisibility frozen in his place at the corner of the bed.   

Hm? Which snow fairy, love?

My grandmamma used to tell me stories about snow fairies. They are sweet little spirits, like that child Japanese spirit—ah,  _zashiki warashi_.

It was one of Victor’s bad days. A tube connected to a portable oxygen concentrator had to be arranged to help him breathe. Even then his lips were always smiling, his eyes on Yuri were of utter adoration, as if he knew they were connected with an unsevered bond.

Yuuri sat on a chair next to the bed, stroking Victor’s thin damp blond hair.

Ah, so the snow fairy in your grandmamma’s story also brings fortune to its house?

Of course. He brings fortune and joy to his witnesses. And look, Yuuri.

Hm?

We have one here.

Victor’s brittle finger pointed at him and Yuri wanted to hide. Yuuri followed his lover’s finger and gaze, the brown eyes behind those glasses suddenly wild and fearful.  _Not now, not now, give him more time_. Yuri swallowed hard, wanting to cry for his Dad who tried his best to be brave.

Oh? He’s there, huh, Victor? Yuuri asked. His voice didn’t waver. Yuri’s Dad was so brave.

Mhm. He’s standing right there in the corner, next to the closet. He’s staring at us.

How does he look like?

Victor’s face broke into a joyful smile, so pure, so bright, it felt like watching a full-bloomed sunflower.

He’s a sweet boy,  _sakharok_. As sweet as a baby bear who rolls around on a giant rainbow-colored cotton candy.

.

.

.

Sometimes Yuuri cried.

Please God, not now. I will be ready, but not now.

It was a silent prayer, as silent as the tears that melted down his cheeks. When the tears flowed Victor was always deep in his drug-induced slumber, where he wasn’t lonely with Yuuri presented in each of his dreams. But the real Yuuri was alone and awake, and in such time he feared the oncoming days in which his world would be empty.

Yuri stood next to him, unable to do anything. He watched as Yuuri’s shoulders shook with the ferocity of the pain, his lips bitten to hold the scream. His tears were fat beads of translucent pearls.

Just a little more, give us a little more.

Until in the end Yuuri was exhausted and he too fell asleep, hugging Victor or curled up in his embrace. When the lovers’ eyes closed, Yuri’s eyes wept for them.

.

.

.

Victor’s eyes followed Yuri everywhere.

He had no strength left to lift his head from the pillow but his eyes wandered everywhere like that of a feline following a string of ribbon. Under his curious gaze Yuri felt exposed and uncomfortable, often he snapped at him to cut it off. Victor only laughed, which then turned into a wet, painful sounding cough. Yuuri wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.

Yuuri pretended Victor’s regular talk to their invisible guest didn’t bother him. He listened when Victor told him about the cute way their snow fairy blushed, how adorable it was when he was bristling mad, like a kitten. He chuckled when Victor informed how much calling the snow fairy “sweet as a baby bear who rolls around on a giant rainbow-colored cotton candy” would irk him.

Don’t tease him so much, Victor. You don’t want to make him cry, do you?

It’s alright. He actually likes it when I call him cute. Right, little fairy?

Yuri scoffed, rolling his eyes. Victor smiled happily. Yuuri pinched his thin pale cheek softly, careful not to bruise, only Yuri saw how those warm eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

Their time was almost up.

.

.

.   

Are you going to take me away?

The conversation happened in the rare time when Yuuri was too exhausted, he fell in a much too deep sleep he didn’t realize Victor had been awake. The sky outside had stopped being dark, behind the thick fog the sun had risen. Victor’s breaths came in and out so light, like a drifting silver wrapper, you could miss it if you didn’t pay attention.

If you’re going to take me, please wait until Yuuri is awake. I wouldn’t want him to wake up alone.

Yuri, sitting cross-legged next to the bed, glared at him.

You think I’m a damn reaper?

Ah? You’re not?

You’re the one who call me a goddamn snow fairy!

Because Yuuri would be terrified if I called you the  _other_ name.

Tch.

Aha, my apologies, little fairy. So, who are you really, hm?

… My name is Yurichka.

_Yurichka. That’s how Papa would love to call you. It’s an endearment, sweetheart, so every time you hear it you’ll always remember that we love you._

Ah? It’s a lovely name.

Victor’s eyes were so dull, they looked like they would fall off their blackened sockets. His chapped lips smiled, but he didn’t sound like someone who recognized the teenager before him was his son from the future. Yurichka, the name he gave Yuri, had yet been known to him.

Victor winced, his frail body stiffened as a sudden wave of pain wrecked his nerves. It had been really bad for him these days; the painkiller had ceased to give him release. He could barely hold on anymore.

Yuri scooted closer so that his back was against the bed. He put his head on the mattress, staring up at the high ceiling as he started to narrate a story the way Yuuri would when he was awake.

Yuuri, that lover of yours, will live a long life.

Really? I’m glad.

He will be an old man who frets too much.

A breathless chuckle. A wet, painful sounding cough. I can imagine. But he frets because he cares.

I know.

The ceiling was crisscrossed with sturdy-looking woods. There were spider webs on its corners.

He will have a son. The two of them live in an  _onsen_ , a family business, in Yuuri’s hometown. It’s a peaceful life. His son often asks about his Papa, and Yuuri always answers,  _your Papa is a Snow Prince_. They bicker and fight daily, but you don’t need to worry. They don’t mean it. They’re just being stubborn. Maybe it’s because—

Yuri swallowed, trying in vain to get rid of a lump in his throat. A flash of memory, of his father waiting for him in front of the gate, a huge smile lightened up his face.  _Welcome home, Yurichka. How was your day? Are you happy? Did you have fun? Come here, let’s eat! Daddy has cooked you your favorite katsudon._

—because they share the same name.

A long silence followed. Even the world seemed to hold its breath. When Yuri dared to turn his head to look at Victor, the man’s eyes was brimmed with tears. Droplets of it flowed down to his temple as his cheeks pushed up in a smile.

Is that true? Yurichka?

Yuri nodded.

In Russia, the suffix -chka is often used as an endearment.

I know. Dad told me so.

What else did Daddy tell you?

Yuri felt his eyes prickled, his nose felt heavy from holding back the tears.

That you love me _very, very much_.

Victor’s smile was so wide, his thin cheeks stretched out, wrinkled; his eyebags pushed up like pockets. Your Dad is always right.

I know.

Those emaciated fragile arms lifted, Yuri was surprised Victor still have the strength to do so. Come, he said, jerking his head, let me hug you.

Yuri had expected his invisible body to go through Victor's brittle one and he would fall down on the floor. Instead, their chests met, solid, the breath from Victor's protruding ribs in tandem with the one behind Yuri's padded jacket. Yuri drowned himself in the man's neck, Victor caressed Yuri's pale blond hair and kissed him with love.  
  
They both sobbed, low and quiet, not wanting to disturb Yuuri from his slumber. In his ears Yuri could hear Victor whispered endlessly like a chain of prayer beads,  
  
_Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you._  
  
Yuri thought: so this is how it feels, being hugged by my Papa.

.

.

.    

An ambulance stopped in front of the cottage, its intrusive red light disturbed the peaceful white snow. How strange.

The cottage in the woods suddenly not in the woods anymore. There was an asphalt road the width of two cars behind the thin rows of pine trees. There were red pavements, forming a twisting path like a blood vein. Beyond the trees there were the rooftops of other cottages. How strange.

People walked in and out briskly. Victor was pushed on a stretcher. Someone guided Yuuri, helping him walked out of the cottage and into the ambulance. Their uniform was too bright in the white-grey world. Suddenly there weren’t only the three of them in this universe.

How strange.

How peculiar.

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.

_Katsudon_ was Daddy’s favorite food. Because it was Daddy’s favorite, then it was Papa’s favorite too.

Because it was Daddy and Papa’s favorite, then it was Yuri’s favorite too.

Poodle was Papa’s favorite pet. Because it was Papa’s favorite, then it was Daddy’s favorite too.

Because it was Daddy and Papa’s favorite, then it was Yuri’s favorite too.

( _although Yuri actually liked cat better_ ).

.

.

.

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.

Back to the pond. This time, Yuuri was alone.

At Yuri’s home, between the framed photographs, there were certificates and shining medals. Dad was a figure skating athlete, and so was Papa. And because Dad and Papa were figure skating athletes, Yuri too aspired to advance in the same path. He didn’t like feeling left out.

It was kind of hard to imagine the plump thirty-nine years old Yuuri Katsuki to jump and spin on the ice, but this Yuuri did it with natural grace. Yuri watched from the edge of the pond as Yuuri danced— spinning, twisting, jumping; in and out of the thick curtain of fog like the glint of a fish tail under the moonlight.

If figure skating were Swan Lake ballet: Victor was Odette, the elegant heart-stealing white swan. When he spread his arms he looked like he would soar. Yuuri was Odile, the mischievous alluring black swan. When he leapt he caught your heart in his hands.

Odile and Odette, a double role danced by a prima ballerina, because they were the symbol of balance, of darkness and light. Yuuri and Victor, a double vessel for one soul, because they were in trueness a perfect balance, each completed the other.

But the white swan had spread his marvelous wings, soared to the sky leaving his failed body and never came back.

Had Yuuri been Billy Pilgrim, he wouldn’t have skated alone. He would have skated with the Victors of the pasts, who had danced, was dancing, will dance on the surface of this pond a thousand of times, forever, never stopping. They filled the surface like constellations, spinning, twisting, jumping, until there was no space left for Yuuri to move. No space left in his heart to long. But he wasn’t Billy Pilgrim. None of them was.

A gust of wind shook the bare branches and ruffled his hair. The cold creeped under his jacket like a tickle, its whistle echoed like a single flute note. Yuri grumbled under his breaths, pushed his locks away from his eyes. When his view was cleared he looked up to find Yuuri was staring straight at him.

Uh, he fidgeted nervously, blinking. Yuuri’s eyes were wide as a saucer. Yuri felt like a thief caught red handed. Can you see me?

But Yuuri didn’t answer. His bottom lip trembled, his big beady tears overflowed. Yuri had started panicking before he felt a strong presence next to him.

From the corner of his unknown-origin green eyes, Yuri caught a sight of what he thought would never be seen again. The figure next to him stood proudly in a beautiful, beautiful attire, gleaming golden badges and velvet embroidery; though none of them pared in comparison to his bright youthful face. So warm and so full of love.

The hurried slashes of the skating blades against thick murky ice. Yuuri pivoted forward, a bare happiness on his face. The figure next to Yuri stretched his arms out, a homecoming invitation to the safest place never denied.

Victor!

The curtain of fog closed thickly around him. Flakes of snow peppered his skin. A small flutter of wind, twisting the leaves like a champion spinning at the end of his winning sequence.

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The weather report had been alarming.

Yuuri-kun escorted his last guests to the gate, bowing in polite gratitude and wished them a safe trip home. Yuutopia closed early today. The local channel had broadcasted a forecast of an oncoming blizzard—a small scale and supposedly nothing to worry about, but the residents were advised to stay alert nonetheless. Prepare the emergency kit. Lock the doors and windows. Put on the tire chains, have a safe drive.

Yuuri-kun, an attentive man that he was, watched his guests retreated like a mother would her child. Only when they disappeared from his sight had he turned, walking back to the warmth of his home.

He was struggling with the old stubborn front door which jammed in the middle when he heard the muffled sound of someone walking on the snow. He looked up to see his son Yuri, standing next to him with both hands in his pockets, his face set in the usual stern expression. The hood of his jacket was soaked in melted snow, his lean figure trembled slightly in the cold.

Welcome back, Yuuri-kun greeted stiffly, with as much dignity as he could muster in his position of half-lifting the heavy sliding door. He didn’t mean to sound cold, but it was hard to talk to Yuri normally these days. Look at you, all soaked up like that. Hurry up and go take a bath. We don’t want you to get sick.

The door finally unjammed and Yuuri-kun stepped inside, feeling his son followed right behind him. The door slid close. The silence between them was almost unbearable (an unbearableness which, Yuuri-kun realized with a heavy heart, had started to become customary), but then all of sudden Yuri hugged him from behind.

Yuri?!

I’m sorry.

Years ago, which felt like it was only yesterday, Yuri’s height had only reached his waist. When he hugged him like this his face would snuggle on his bottom spine. Now he was growing up, Yuuri-kun felt his long nose dug into his shoulder blade.

I won’t say things like that again. I believe you.

How time flies. Same time next year and maybe his little Yurichka would have been far surpassed him.

Wind sneaked through the cracks of the door, bringing small amount of snowflakes like diamond sand. The cold swirled around them, a cold which make an embrace even warmer.

Yuuri-kun smiled, patted Yuri’s arm still coiled around him.

Come, Yurichka. Your hands are cold. Go take a bath, change on some warm clothes. I’ll cook us katsudon tonight.

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_Yuuri?_

_Shh, I’m here, Victor._

_Listen, I will never leave you._

_I know, love. I know. Shh, now don’t talk too much. Get some rest, okay?_

_I met him, Yuuriko. Our baby._

_Victor—?_

_He’s here, Yuuri. With us. And I will be a part of him, just like he will be a part of you. In him we’ll be together forever._

_Oh, Victor. Is it true? Is it true that you’re talking about? A baby ... ?_

_Yes, Yuuri, my love, my happiness. He’s here. I’ve met him. Such a lovely boy, our little fairy, so sweet, as sweet as a baby bear who rolls around on a giant rainbow-colored cotton candy—_

_—don’t cry, Yuuri, shh … shh … here, look at me and smile. Our little fairy has your smile. His eyes shine like your eyes. Yurichka. Our snow fairy. Yuuri—_

_—I won’t go anywhere, Yuuri. Yurichka. I’ll always be here with you two. With the wind, with the snow … Yurichka, our little snow fairy, I will be his snow fairy. With each snowflake on his hair I will kiss him. I will kiss you too, Yuuriko, my Yuuriko—_

_—ah, there. Just like that. Smile, my love. You have such a beautiful smile. I love you. I love you. I’ll be here with the wind and snow. You’re my beautiful queen and I am your prince._

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End file.
